


Pretend

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, First Time, Frottage, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, One-Sided Sex Pollen, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-12-26 23:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18292652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: F.R.I.D.A.Y. informs him he just breathed in a chemical concoction that will send his body haywire if he doesn’t orgasm inside someone, and soon.“What the fuck?” he asks his AI at this pronouncement, because actually: what the fuck? “Why.”





	Pretend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [floweringbloom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweringbloom/gifts).



> I was so excited when I got this assignment, because I’ve been wanting to explore one-sided sex pollen for these two for a while now. I had a lot of fun writing this, and I really hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Written before _Endgame_ so no spoilers/take it as a post-IW AU.
> 
> See endnotes for content warnings/info.

One day, Tony will learn to stop being so cocky. It always gets him in trouble.

The third mission of what he’s dubbed “Project Baby Steps” was going great until two minutes ago. Bringing Peter along to help deal with a mad scientist—with an honest-to-god lair and everything—seemed like a good idea. The operation hit the sweet spot for training the newest Avenger: three steps above friendly neighborhood stuff, but so far below dying on an alien planet that Tony had been able to pick up the phone to call him in without panicking.   

Plus, secret lairs are pretty fun, especially when they’re located in remote, snowy mountains. Peter had certainly thought so; halfway through the mission Tony had been forced to remind him that constantly whispering, “So cool!” and “Mr. Stark, it’s just like _James Bond_!” isn’t very covert.

Despite the over-enthusiasm, things had gone well. They’d taken out the scientist and his three goons with ease, leaving them safely knocked out, tied up, and locked in an empty room while they performed a final sweep to get a sense of the guy’s tech. A-freaking-plus superhero mentoring, Tony had told himself. He’s doing a bang-up job.

Yeah. So, cocky. And of course it bit him in the ass. He’d been so busy congratulating himself that he’d gotten sloppy exploring one of the labs, a large space lined with creepy objects floating in jars, empty cages, and several desks covered in half-constructed weapons. He’d knocked over a jar of green gas, and now here he is, huddled in a corner, sweating so hard even the fans in his suit aren’t helping. A raging hard-on presses uncomfortably against the metal of his suit; F.R.I.D.A.Y. informs him he just breathed in a chemical concoction that will to send his body haywire if he doesn’t orgasm inside someone, and soon.

“What the fuck?” he asks his AI at this pronouncement, because actually: what the fuck? “ _Why_.”

“It appears to be part of Dr. Hibble’s exploration of poisons,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. tells him, scanning through the not-so-good doctor’s files. “It’s a chemical mixture distilled from a rare flower he found in the Amazon.”

“Fantastic,” Tony hisses. He opens his helmet in the hopes that it will making breathing easier. It doesn’t. He’s pretty sure this building is actually on the cold side of things, what with being on the top of a snow-covered mountain, but all he can sense is sweltering heat. It feels like he’s running a bad fever. “So, when you say haywire…?”

“I’m not quite sure,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. admits. “But your temperature just spiked to 103.” Oh, so it feels like he’s running a fever because he is. That checks out. “And your heartrate is increasing at a steady rate. If it keeps going—”

“Boom,” Tony finishes for her.

“Possibly,” she agrees.

Well, great.

“How long’ve I got?” he asks, already flipping through a mental rolodex of people he might be able to drop in on with this problem. Rhodey’s his best bet—they’ve never, but he’d definitely be willing to take this one for the team. Nat could probably be dispassionate about it. Maybe Pepper. It’s been a couple of years since their split, but he’s pretty sure she still likes him enough that she doesn’t want him to die, and it’s not like it’d be something new for them.  

This thought process is cut short when F.R.I.D.A.Y. informs him that if his heartrate keeps going up at its current speed, he’s got less than half an hour before “a heart attack seems very likely.” There’s no way he’s getting to any of those people. That’s not even enough time to get to the nearest village to find a brothel.

Okay. Okay, okay. What does that leave? There’s the scientist and his goons, which would be—well. Ethically unsound in a way that makes him nauseous just thinking about it, even if they are the reason he’s in this position in the first place. And then there’s—

“Mr. Stark?”

Yeah. And then there’s _that_ option. Which: no fucking way. Not after he’s spent the last year and a half studiously keeping strictly, almost painfully, appropriate boundaries, despite Peter’s subtle—and increasingly not-so-subtle—hints about how _weird_ it is that the age of consent in New York is seventeen, and then, later, oh man, eighteen, isn’t it crazy that he can vote and join the army? That’s like, totally a real adult, doesn’t Tony think so? Isn’t that why he’s allowed to be an official Avenger now?

A fucking flower from the fucking rain forest is not going to be the thing that makes him cross that line. He can’t.

Peter’s clearly figured out something’s wrong, which isn’t a shock, since Tony’s lying on the ground covered in sweat. Normally he’d try to play it off, assure him there’s nothing to worry about, but that’s a lost cause, so when Peter rips off his mask and rushes to his side, he does the next best thing: he raises his blaster, pointing it at his chest. Peter pulls up short.

“Wha—?” he asks, blinking at Tony’s hand with a look of utter betrayal. It would break Tony’s heart if he didn’t have more pressing concerns, like the fact that every single nerve in his body is crying out to grab Peter and throw him against the wall. He’d like to say the images currently running through his mind are new and surprising, but that would be a lie. At least half of them come directly from wet dreams he’s been trying to pretend he doesn’t have.

But the part where not jumping the teenager standing in front of him is less an exercise in mild self-restraint and more an act of willpower so extraordinary he didn’t know he had it in him—that _is_ new. That’s definitely the drug. His cock throbs so hard it hurts.

Teenager, he repeats to himself. He’s still a teenager. Even if he’s also officially an adult (and oh my god, _why_ had he let Peter keep repeating that at him? It’s giving his drug-addled brain way too many ideas).  

“Mr. Stark, what’s going on?” Peter asks, still eyeing the blaster.

Oh, right. Right. He needs to talk. “Kid, get out of here.”

“Uh, definitely not.” Peter’s face transforms from concern to annoyance. “Can you stop pointing that thing at me?”  

“Nope.” He means it to be flippant, but it comes out something like a groan and _holy shit_ , it’s getting hard to hold his hand up. The entire room feels a little blurry around the edges, everything except Peter out of focus. He’s still several feet away, but Tony would swear he can smell him, the scent of his sweat familiar from boxing matches, the rounds of training he’s tried very hard to convince himself are not just an excuse to get close, to let Peter pin him down, straddle him, triumphant grin feeding dreams that are currently feeding fantasies and—

 _Fuck_. This is what he gets for playing with fire, isn’t it? You totally have it under control, Tony. He just has a crush; he’ll get over it. _You_ just have a crush; you’ll get over it. It’s fine. You’re not going to cross that line. You’re not going to fuck up this relationship.

Yeah, too cocky indeed. And now look at him.

Peter is inching closer. He’s put his mask back on, and it takes Tony a moment to realize he must be talking to Karen. Who, because they are on a mission, is currently linked up to F.R.I.D.A.Y., and—shit.

“Fri, don’t tell him anything.” But he can tell by the way Peter has gone still that it’s too late. “I’m going to repeat the thing about you leaving, Pete.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” Peter pulls off the mask again, revealing an expression that is ninety percent deep worry, and ten percent something that makes Tony want to pin him down and fuck him until he screams and _what the hell kind of thought is that_? This is one fucked up flower. At least his subconscious is normally a little gentler with its fantasies.

Suddenly Peter makes a sharp movement with his hand and Tony’s wrist slams against the wall, stuck.

“Peter,” Tony warns. Tries to warn. It’s supposed to be a warning. It comes out more like a throaty moan. “Don’t.”

Something that might be guilt flashes across Peter’s face, but he shakes his head. “I’m not going to let you die.”

“There’s gotta be something else,” Tony chokes out. He could raise his other blaster. The thought comes to him a little slowly, dull and distant. Yeah, he could do that. Should do that. But he doesn’t. This flower is definitely doing something to his brain. “Maybe there’s an antidote.”

“Not listed in the files,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. chirps helpfully into his earpiece. Perfect. Well, he doesn’t need to tell Peter that. Though maybe he could hear Fri’s report from Tony’s earpiece, because he’s still stalking closer, crouching until they’re level with each other. Even with at least a foot of room between them, Tony can feel the heat radiating off his body. Everything about him is in stark relief: the angle of his jaw, the flush of red across his cheeks, his lips, slightly chapped. Tony balls his free hand into a fist to stop himself from dragging him into a kiss.

“Mr. Stark, come on.” He places his hand on Tony’s chest plate. There’s no way he can actually feel the touch, but his skin burns, as if Peter’s palm is branding him through the layers of metal. He’s not sure he wants to know what it would feel like to actually have those fingers on his skin with this drug coursing through him. “I don’t mind. You must know that.”

Tony’s dick jumps at the suggestion contained in those words; the burst of lust that floods his body is only half artificially induced. He bites back a groan, gnawing at the inside of his cheek. “I—that’s—I can’t.”

Hurt flickers on Peter’s face, but he quickly replaces it with a determined glare. “I know you don’t see me like that,” he says, voice shaking a little. “But it’s better than dying, right?”

How’s he supposed to argue with that kind of logic? What’s he supposed to say? _No, the problem isn’t that I don’t see you like that. The problem is I’m never going to be able to unsee it_.

Peter makes the decision for him, wrapping a hand around his neck and pulling him forward into a wet kiss, sloppy and insistent. Tony’s entire body lights up, surge of arousal grasping his muscles. He moves without meaning to, nanobots retracting so he can weave his fingers into Peter’s hair and drag him closer. Suddenly Peter’s straddling him, hands on the side of his face, skin on skin something deeper than fire: every brush sparks a shiver that runs from his touch straight to Tony’s dick.

He hears himself moan and it’s like he’s in a porn video; he’s never in his life sounded so ridiculous. The part of him that still cares about preserving a sense of dignity tries to stop the noise, but then Peter bites his lower lip and it’s all he can do not to groan louder.

He lets the nanobots disappear entirely and _wow_ , that was a mistake, because now Peter is everywhere, the Spider-suit and Tony’s clothes barely anything between them. Without his arm encased in metal he slips out of the web. He means to use the freed hand to push Peter away, but instead he grabs the back of his neck, eliciting an appreciative hum that he can practically taste. And—oh god—the kid _will not let up_ , hands moving to his chest, fumbling with the zipper on his sweatshirt. He shifts his hips forward, brushing their erections together.

For a second the entire world goes white and the only thing Tony knows is need. By the time his mind catches up to what his body is doing, he’s stretched out on the floor, Peter pinned beneath him. He grinds down so roughly it must hurt, but the eyes that look back up at him are startled, not upset.

“See?” Peter says, lips—wet and bruised—curving into half a grin. “Better than dying, right?” 

“Kid,” Tony replies, brain desperately scrambling to find some kind of reply that might save this moment, but then Peter looks at him pointedly and thrusts up, erection hitting erection, and he loses sight of anything but want. He bares down on Peter’s neck, biting and sucking, hard—probably too hard. He should stop, wants to stop, but Peter tastes _so good_ , and he’s wriggling so appealingly underneath him, and he can’t, just _can’t_.

“Fuck,” Peter gasps, rubbing harder, hips jerking up. He whines when Tony’s hand finds his hair and yanks to the left, exposing his neck further, so he can bite and suck with abandon. “Fuck, if you keep doing that I’m gonna—”

Tony doesn’t stop. With a frustrated grunt Peter grabs his shoulders and pushes, rolling them in an instant, landing on top with a triumphant smile, pinning Tony’s arms. Exactly like every dream he’s ever had after one of their boxing matches, but real, dangerously real. Peter just sits there, panting, shifting away when Tony, unable to stop himself, tries to buck up into him.

“Gimme a second,” he says, pushing at Tony’s arms when he tries to move.

It’s agony, being pinned, Peter’s everything around him, the taste of him still on his tongue, his feet tucked across his legs, holding him down. His dick is throbbing well past the point of pleasure; the entire world spins.

“I don’t know how many seconds I’ve got, Pete,” he admits. The words come out slurring.

Peter nods. From behind a sheen of sweat and blown-out pupils, he looks concerned. “Yeah, your heart is beating way too fast,” he agrees.

The fact that he can tell that by sound alone is amazing, and for a second Tony has enough presence of mind to worry if he’s been able to hear the other times his heart has jumped inappropriately, at lingering touches or particularly bold bits of flirtation.

(How has he never thought about this before?) (Doesn’t matter. Problem for later.)

Peter considers him thoughtfully, wearing the same expression he gets when he runs into trouble in the lab. His eyes dart around the room, casually pinning Tony tighter when a flood of lust makes him try to lunge up.  

“How about that desk?” he asks, indicating with a tilt of his head a desk covered in papers. Simple, matter-of-fact, as if he’s suggesting where to sit for dinner, not a place for Tony to fuck him—

Fuck. Fucking Peter Parker over a desk. Yeah, he’s had that thought before. And not just in his dreams. Sometimes, working side-by-side in the lab, when Peter leans over, lost in his work, arching his back—honestly, how could he not?  

And now, like a nightmare, it’s all unfolding in front of him, and he’s not going to be able to stop it. He’s going to enjoy every second of it. He wants to rip Peter to shreds, possess every inch of him. The worst part is, he’s having a hard time sorting through which parts of that are the drug, and which parts are just him.

He wants to say: _We need to be careful_. He wants to say: _Kid, I don’t know if I can control this_. He wants to say: _I don’t want to hurt you. I’d rather die than hurt you._

What actually comes out of his mouth is: “Yes. Desk. Now.”

Peter is up in seconds, pulling him to his feet like it’s nothing. As soon as he’s standing Tony pounces forward, grabbing him, pressing their mouths together in a hungry kiss. His body is tight and strong and Tony wants to feel more. _Needs_ to. The Spider-suit is so thin it might as well not be there, and yet it’s still too much.

“Off,” he mutters against Peter’s mouth, finding the suit’s centerpiece and hitting it. It crumples to the ground. He swears there’s a good reason it’s tuned to his hand as well as Peter’s. A good, responsible reason. Something about what if he found Peter passed out, and he was hurt, and he needed to get him out—yeah. Good reasons. This exact moment had never crossed his mind.

(That’s a lie. It’s such a lie.)

Peter’s skin is butter, soft and smooth over taught muscles, and for a moment all Tony can do is run his hands along his stomach. Then he pulls back enough to look and no, he shouldn’t have done that. Because he’s never going to be able to forget this: Lean, sculpted body, covered in goosebumps, glazed with sweat. Bright eyes, hair tussled, erection straining against precome-stained boxers.

 _He_ did that, _he_ made Peter look like this.

“Wow,” he breathes, and under throbbing desire he feels a tug of longing that he’s pretty sure is more than lust.

For some reason, when their eyes meet, he’s greeted with sadness.

“Kid?” he asks, but Peter just grabs his hand and tugs him toward the desk.

At the sudden contact the force of the drug takes over again. In an instant he has Peter shoved up against the desk. He reaches behind him, sweeping the papers onto the floor in what he thinks is an appropriately dramatic gesture. He pushes him until he’s lying down, falls on top of him, licks into his mouth greedily, sloppily, any pretense of finesse or skill thrown aside for pure animal want.

Their erections brush again, and when Tony bears down Peter lets out a loud moan, thrusting up to meet him, hand finding his hair and pulling his head away from his mouth. “Mr. Stark, if you—fuck—I’ll—”

“Good,” Tony growls, taking his earlobe in his mouth and sucking, hard. Peter throws his legs around his back, linking his heels and rocking, clutching his shoulders, sending jolts along Tony’s body; wave after wave of heat, overwhelming. Peter ruts against him, moans trailing off into wordless whimpers as his movements lose all sense of rhythm.

“Yeah,” he hears himself say. “Fuck, yes, that’s it kid—”

Peter goes still, entire body frozen as he jerks, fingers digging into Tony’s shoulders, a warm spot growing between them.

That warmth, the knowledge that Peter just came beneath him, kick starts something in the back of Tony’s mind and— _fuck_ , what _is_ this stuff? How can it be burning him up _more_ , hitting at his brain until the thought of driving into the body underneath him is all-consuming?

With a snarl he grabs Peter’s boxers and yanks them off. Peter lets out a surprised sound, squirming as Tony seizes his legs and shoves them roughly up, spreading him open. But he doesn’t protest, doesn’t push Tony away or flip their position, just grasps the sides of his own thighs. He pulls his knees up to his shoulders, catching Tony’s eyes and giving him an encouraging nod.

God, and he thought he’d looked beautiful before.

“You’re a masterpiece,” he says, and then freezes. Damn it. Does this drug also short-circuit the brain-mouth filter? It must. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. The small part of his mind that can still string thoughts together tells him to sprint for the door before he says something really stupid, but the rest of him is busy running one hand up Peter’s thigh, shoving three fingers from his other hand into his mouth and demanding, “Suck.”

Peter obeys, whining as his tongue works its way eagerly between Tony fingers, silky and warm.

“Yeah,” Tony murmurs encouragingly. “Just like that.” Peter’s cock somehow twitches to life again, hardening against his stomach. Tony’s body sings with want, knees going weak. Literally. He didn’t know that was a thing that could literally happen.

He grabs his fingers back, and then impulsively leans forward to kiss Peter again. He can’t tell if that’s the drug or him. Maybe both. Peter returns the kiss energetically. He’s wriggling a lot, probably overwhelmed on a post-orgasm high. Tony can’t even begin to imagine what that feels like with Peter’s powers. Well, maybe a little like how everything feels to him right now: bright and sharp, pleasure just this side of too much, wild and wanting.

He keeps kissing the one person he promised himself he’d never kiss as his hand finds his entrance. He shoves a finger in, faster and harder than he meant to, not entirely in control of his own movements. Peter lets out a cry, hands flying to grasp the back of Tony’s neck.

“Sorry,” Tony whispers, even as he begins to thrust his finger at a brutal pace, warm tightness drawing him in, sensation flying up his arm, clutching at his gut, pulling him harder. “I can’t—fuck, I literally can’t.” He adds another finger, stomach twisting in guilt and arousal at the way Peter arches and cries out. “Stop me. Just, stop me. If you need. Please.”

Peter moves his hand to the back of his head, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m fine,” he insists. But then Tony adds another finger and he cringes, sucking in air.

“No you’re not,” Tony observes, turning his fingers, feeling how Peter’s body fights against them, squeezing and pulling away. “Please don’t lie.”

Peter kisses him, deeply, gently, strokes his hair as if—wow, as if _he’s_ trying to comfort _Tony_. “I’m okay,” he repeats, staring into Tony’s eyes, hand landing on his cheek. “Mr. Stark, I can handle it. I _want_ it.” As if to prove the point, he relaxes around Tony’s fingers, bearing down on him, fucking himself.

That blows away whatever grasp on conscious thought Tony had left. Suddenly his fingers are out. His pants and underwear fall to the floor before he even realizes he’s pulled them down, freeing his dick, which pulses with a want that runs up his stomach, through his nerves, filling him until he can hardly breathe. He briefly thinks about taking off his sweatshirt, too, but the idea is forgotten as the tip of his cock finds Peter’s hole. _You can stop me_ , he tries to say, but the words don’t form; instead he thrust forward with a growl. The heat of it, the tightness, makes him freeze for a moment, too overwhelmed to move.

The sound Peter makes is somewhere between a moan and a wail. It must be too much, too fast—and, wait, is the kid a virgin? Probably. Fuck—but if he minds he doesn’t show it. Instead he pulls Tony into another kiss, wrapping his heels around his back and shoulders, showing off that flexibility—god, how often has that flexibility featured in his fantasies?—moving under Tony in an inelegant attempt to fuck back onto him.

“Jesus,” Tony gasps as he responds to the movement, driving hard and deep. He leans down, pressing their bodies together, nuzzling against Peter’s hair, damp with sweat, inhaling the scent of him. He smells so good he can almost taste it, feel it, the difference between senses blending until he’s not sure where one starts and another stops. “Fuck, kid.”

Peter whines and arches, dick rubbing against Tony’s stomach. He’s panting, heavy and almost pained, yelping in pleasure when Tony hits at just the right angle. He should be noting that, aiming, trying to make this as good for Peter as possible, but he can’t do anything except pound into him. He wants to say something reassuring, but he’s not sure he can trust what will come out of his mouth.

“Mr. Stark,” Peter chokes out as Tony picks up the pace. “ _Please_.”

“Please, what?” Tony groans into his ear. “What do you need? Anything, Peter, I’d do anything for you.”

See. Fuck. That. That’s exactly what he was worried about. That’s the kind of shit he’s been trying not to say, and definitely not say like this, meaning _those_ things. He would though. Anything. He presses a kiss to Peter’s cheek. 

The world spins, and Tony realizes Peter has flipped their positions like it’s nothing, landing on top of him, straddling him. He sits straight, one hand pressed firmly against Tony’s chest, the other resting lightly on his shoulder. Their eyes meet, and Tony sees tears glittering in those brown eyes he loves so much. The sight should be enough to make him stop, but his body keeps going without his input, adjusting to the new angle in seconds, hands finding Peter’s hips as he thrusts needily into the warmth.

Peter begins to move, at first experimentally, but quickly taking control, meeting Tony’s rhythm, slamming them together. His dick stands straight, fully hard and leaking. Tony has never seen anything he wanted more.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and immediately hates himself. But Peter arches, cock jumping, eyes fluttering closed.

“Keep doing that.” Under throaty exhaustion and lust, there’s definitely a note of unmistakable sadness in Peter’s voice. It clutches at Tony’s heart even as he continues to drive, harder. “Pretend you actually want this. Please?”

The words might as well be a hand squeezing his lungs; his chest literally tightens, a sob caught somewhere under the desire. He means to do exactly what Peter says, mumble out praise that he can brush off as a lie when it’s all over. But then he sees the longing on the face above his, and the words that rip out of him are: “Kid, it’s not pretend.”

He’d blame it on the flower, but that wasn’t the flower. That was the look on Peter’s face. That was that he can’t stand to see him hurt.

Peter goes still, pure confusion radiating off him, like he’s not sure he can trust what Tony just said. Of course, why would he? Hasn’t Tony been working hard to make sure he’s convinced his fumbling advances are unwanted?

Peter’s mouth opens and closes, as if he’s trying to find words, apparently able to ignore that Tony is still hammering into him. But Tony can’t ignore it, the tightness and the nearness of him, the feel of his thighs around his side, the strength of his muscles, that hand keeping him in place. The need in his gut, lust and so much more than that.

“I’m serious,” he says, his words mixing with gasps and the sloppy slap of skin-on-skin. He turns to the hand on his shoulder, manages to land a kiss along the knuckles there before meeting Peter’s eyes again. “I want—I’ve wanted—fuck, Peter. Of course I want you.”

The pressure on his chest lets up, and suddenly Peter is moving them again, pulling Tony to sitting, one arm wrapping around his back, the hand of the other clutching into his hair. He draws him into a desperate kiss, beginning to move again, bouncing just a little. Tony forces himself to go still. He focuses on kissing back, letting Peter fuck himself on him, dizzy with the rhythm of it.

“Say that again,” Peter pleads against his lips, moving faster. “Please, sir. Please, I want to believe—”

“Believe it,” Tony says, biting his neck, sucking his ear, feeling his orgasm build, so close to the edge he barely knows what’s happening. “Fuck, Peter, are you kidding? I dream about you. All the time. I can barely be around you. You’re so fucking gorgeous, you’re fucking perfect, you’re—fuck.” He presses his head into his shoulder. “You’re all I want.”

Peter goes silent, arching and trembling in his arms as he splatters across their chests, staining Tony’s sweatshirt, which is somehow, absurdly, still on. His muscles spasm around Tony’s cock, and that’s enough to send him over the edge too, coming with an intensity that makes the world go black.

When his mind scrambles back to something resembling consciousness, Peter is still in his lap, forehead resting against his, panting heavily. Tony pulls him close, brushing his lips against his cheek. “I’m sorry, Pete,” he whispers, and he’s shocked to hear his voice is wet with tears.

“Don’t be.” Peter adjusts, and Tony’s cock slips free. But he doesn’t pull away, just burrows closer, dropping his head to his shoulder. “Are you okay now, sir?”

“F.R.I.D.A.Y.?” Tony asks, and his AI comes to life in his ear.

“Your temperature and heart rate are stabilizing,” she confirms.

“Looks like it,” Tony reports, though he’s sure Peter could hear the update, too. “Um, ‘thanks’ seems like a weird thing to say right now, but…thanks. You just saved my life.”

“I guess we’re even then,” Peter says. He sits up, eyes not quite meeting Tony’s. “Did you mean what you said, or was that just—I mean, it’s okay if it was just because I asked, I won’t be upset.”

Tony can’t stop himself from laughing affectionately. “You would be very upset,” he accuses. He brings his hand to Peter’s chin, tilting it upwards until he’s forced to look at him. “But yeah, I meant it. You weren’t supposed to know, but I meant it.”

Peter’s lips quiver into a small smile. “But now I do know,” he points out, and the hope in his tone is unmissable.

“Now you do know,” Tony agrees. He has no idea what they’re going to do about it. But when he remembers how sad Peter looked, begging him to pretend to want him, he knows acting like it never happened is not an option. “How about we save processing until after we get the bad guys back to headquarters? Emotional repression is a key superhero skill, you may as well learn that now.”

Peter laughs. “Works for me.” He sounds more confident, as if he’s read Tony’s resignation to the situation in his face. He slips out of his arms and goes to retrieve his suit. He’s completely naked, glistening with sweat, still flushed red up and down his body, hair mattered and—yeah, if Tony’s being totally honest, there’s no way he’s letting this be the last time he gets to see that. No way.

“Hey kid,” he says. “You look great.”

The beaming smile he gets in return makes it all worth it. Fuck it. They’ll figure it out.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: They both want each other, but this is still most certainly dub-con by way of lack of communication about said wants, and some loss of control on Tony’s part because of the pollen. Peter is over 18.
> 
> As always, feedback is very much appreciated and cherished.
> 
> Re-dated because this was an exchange fic, and now authors have been revealed. Sorry if you'd seen it already!


End file.
